


i'm not renowned for my restraint

by everAcclimating



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Dave Lalonde - Freeform, Dirk Lalonde - Freeform, First Dates, Fluff, Homestuck Kidswap, John Harley - Freeform, M/M, Sex, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:09:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23146738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everAcclimating/pseuds/everAcclimating
Summary: When two young men meet in a plant nursery, they don't realize it but it's love at first sight.
Relationships: John Egbert/Dirk Strider
Comments: 21
Kudos: 101





	i'm not renowned for my restraint

**Author's Note:**

> Had a long, momentous conversation (many conversations) about a particular kidswap au and decided to whip up a DirkJohn oneshot from a non-SBURB version of it. Dirk Lalonde (Rose-ways) and John Harley, what could go wrong?
> 
> (A green break means the POV after it is John, a purple break means the POV after it is Dirk.)

* * *

You meet him on a rainy day mid-summer while you're working in a nursery. When you first see him you think maybe an anime convention is going, but that doesn't make sense in your internal monologue because you only know of like four anime, none of which you've watched but one of which has a dude that dresses kind of like this guy except he's a creepy demon butler and there's a twelve year old Victorian lord and you think if this dude is cosplaying from that particular anime you don't want to help him, actually.

When he gets close enough you smell cloves and realize he's just a goth.

You can deal with a goth! You've dealt with goths before!

He asks about purple basil and black velvet petunias and he doesn't even look mad when you laugh a little. It's not in a MEAN way, you just think it's very on-brand for a guy with that aesthetic. You can't see his eyes behind his dark shades, but he tilts his head in a curious way as you explain that you have purple basil in stock but you'll have to order the petunias. You're an honest guy, so you tell him he could probably order them himself online cheaper, but he hurriedly says he'd rather come here to pick them up and look at them before taking them home, which you suppose you can understand—the nursery's return policy is pretty lenient if a plant looks like it's going to keel over before you buy it, and it's kind of a hassle to order them himself and have to send them back personally for a refund if they're sub-par.

You get it!

You ring him out for pots, soil, seeds, the order for the petunias, and a couple seedlings of pink dianthus. You think it's an interesting choice, especially since he passes by several other pink flowers as you trail him to assist while no other customers are in. For daylilies he murmurs "have a cat," for begonias he mumbles "beware," dahlias get a soft snort of "elegance," and at a display of lobelia when he looks at you and says clearly "malevolence" you realize he's been, except for the cat commentary, naming off flower language meanings while making his choice. The dianthus get a fond "admiration and affection" before he plucks up a couple of the best-looking seedlings.

You wonder if maybe he's getting them for his girlfriend—uh, boyfriend? Like, not to be weird, but he has a vibe. Shit, is that homophobic? You don't know. He just seems like a guy that would prefer a boyfriend, you don't think it's weird or anything. You can't be homophobic, _you_ are bisexual yourself, so it's fine, right? Thankfully you don't say any of this out loud as the phrase _internalized homophobia_ floats around in your brain looking for something to latch on to. You also don't ask who the pink flowers are for.

He's almost out the gate when you realize you didn't get his phone number for when the order comes in and you call after him that you need it and he does a strange jolt and almost seems _flushed_ when he turns around, though he's pretty pale and it's hard to tell, before he realizes what you mean as you hurriedly finish your sentence and he relaxes, lips twitching into a very slight smile as he comes back to the counter, tray of purchases balanced at his hip, and rattles off his number as you plug it into the computer. Once it's done, you smile and wave him off and he inclines his head and says he'll see you around.

Then he's gone and you don't understand why you feel dazed.

Goths are NOT your type.

* * *

You realize as soon as you see the boy in the nursery that you have a problem.

That problem is cute boys with strong arms and their plaid shirts rolled up to their elbows and green eyes and thick-rimmed glasses and stupid teeth and _fuck_ you almost lose track of yourself. It's fine. The transaction goes fine. He's not your usual type, or so you thought, but he's friendly and cute and you wonder mildly what it'd be like to talk to him at length across from one another in a cafe and maybe read his palm and pretend you actually care about palmistry so you can run your fingertips along the lines of his hand to spin a story where you end up married but subtly spoken so it takes him a second to realize what you mean and you can watch him flush and shiver and and and—

_Anyway_.

Perhaps in another life.

You're perfectly composed again by the time you get home, where you set your own shit aside and do a little work on repotting the dianthus you bought, then heading into your bro Dave's office and putting the small pots in the windowsill. You do it quietly, because he's streaming, with the facecam on so you shouldn't distract him, but he gives you a side-glance from the corners of his eyes behind his shades and then a thumbs up, which is as good as a smile while he's deadpanning ludicrous commentary over the competitive fighting game he's gotten relatively famous playing. He's popular on Twitch because, frankly, your entire family has good genetics, and also he's just funny and good at what he does. His teammates are funny too, and from the sound of how Dave is talking right now, his current play partner is that shouty dude he has a wild crush on, since he's bitching about silver foxes and dude mains Reinhardt. You try not to judge him for it too much. He's switching to making some scathing but flustered (in your opinion) commentary about how _someone_ needs to get his eyes off Zarya's ass and perfect biceps and get in the game, and when he starts dipping into a strange Freudian rant about it you leave the room and carefully shut the door.

He's three years younger than you, but that's not saying much because you're twenty-six and you've both lived in this house since he turned eighteen and you left your doting but very overbearing father back in New York to flee to another state entirely. All the way to California, actually. He periodically sends you both "fun money" but you mostly use it for bills, which is fine, because living in California is fuck off expensive and your father is richer than god. You have your side work, publishing under a pseudonym, and it works out well enough with that and Dave's streaming and esports revenue.

You pour yourself a glass of red in the kitchen and head out into the atrium to finish potting everything that you already have, enjoying the smell of soil and the grit under your nails.

* * *

The goth guy—Dirk, you remember his name is Dirk, because you never forgot it, thanks, comes back after you call him from the shop phone to tell him his order is in. He seems really happy with the petunias to the point of actually flashing you a smile that makes your heart stutter in your chest. Is that normal? That's not normal. He gives you an inscrutable look afterward, like he can see right through you, see right into your heart and tell exactly how that smile made you feel, but he doesn't say anything about it. What he _does_ do is ask where you're from, which is KIND OF OFFENSIVE, DUDE, ALL THINGS CONSIDERED, but he realizes his mistake instantly before you can even make a face and waves his hand a little and just goes no no not like that, he just means you don't talk like a Californian, neither does he, so he was wondering if you were a transplant from the midwest or something?

Okay, yeah, he got it in one, which is way better than the moment of visceral _is he EXOTIFYING ME_ split second you just had. You laugh and tell him you're from Missouri, and you both amend it by saying _misery_ at the same time, which makes _him_ laugh too in a breathy, barely there way and your heart jumps again. He explains that he and his brother are from New York but they've lived here for a few years and you squint suspiciously and tell him he doesn't SOUND like a New Yorker and he snorts and explains that they're not from New York CITY, just New York STATE. The accents are different is all.

You go mm _hm_ and he pauses in a strange way and looks at you like that again, that way you can't tell through his shades, but then his lips do the mini-smile that's not as cute as the one big one he did, but you'll take it.

Why are you thinking this? He's a customer. Fuck. It's super inappropriate.

He seems to realize the same thing because he snaps out of it, gathers his petunias, and tells you he hopes you have a good rest of your day before scurrying out like he got burned. Maybe he did. Maybe you both did. You don't expect to see him again.

But he comes back in a couple weeks and he's more cautious about how he approaches you, at least socially. He buys more flowers, dark purple ones, and some more bright pink ones too. He finally explains that the pink ones fit his brother's aesthetic, which is super wild to you and you say as much, but he just shrugs. We're pretty different, he says, but we're family. You think about your dad back in Missouri and nod. You get it.

He keeps coming back periodically, and every time he smiles at you it jabs you in the chest. It's fine. You're fine. It's not like you think about how you have his cell phone number on file and you could just, you know, send a friendly text sometime, from your own phone, just to see.

Yeah, you can't do that. That's fucked up. That's a breach of privacy even if you've realized extremely suddenly that maybe your type IS cute blond goth guys with tiny smiles and stupid purple glasses and smell like clove. But he doesn't just smell like clove, you've noticed, from being close to him. He smells like clove, and fresh soil, and warmth, and it's very distracting.

You do NOT text him like a creep.

* * *

You can tell that the cute boy from the plant nursery (John) is into you. It's... a thing. You've always been able to just sort of _understand_ people's emotional states, even if you don't quite understand your own sometimes. You joke that you just don't need to do vibe checks to know people's vibes, but Dave just rolls his eyes whenever you say that. You don' need to see his eyes to know he does it, you just know he does. In any case, you're aware he feels in the same way you do, but you can't flirt with him at work, and he can't flirt with you while you're shopping without one or both of you coming across as a creep, so you're at a loss.

Well, until you see him at the shop you pick up taxidermy displays at sometimes. You're looking at a bat when you notice him and pause, hand hovering before you can lift the price tag. He's looking at the books and you can't... You cant miss this opportunity. John, you say, and he _jumps_ and he's flushing when he turns his head to look at you, and he's smiling. A good sign. You carefully pick up the bat by its sturdy base, no longer caring about the price, and walk over to him.

You ask him what he's doing, and he's picking up a book on how to do taxidermy. _That_ gets your attention and you question him a little further about the hobby until he goes like okay, okay, don't think he's weird or anything, but his family like... stuffs and mounts loved ones when they pass away? He says it with a little laugh and you think he's fucking with you for a second but he looks so earnest that it just comes out so fucking breathlessly when you reply that it's the most goth thing you've ever heard, so breathlessly that he laughs and you blush because you can just _tell_ his heart did a flip in his chest and you want to kiss him.

Instead you ask him for his number. You know, the personal one.

Now _he's_ blushing and it feels a little like you're back in the driver's seat but he nods and he does the THING where he asks for your phone to put it in and he compliments your case and types it in and adds a dumb smiling emoji after his name in the contact and sends himself a text of a bat emoji so he can save your number and you're dying from how cute he is. You're dying. You're going to read his fucking palm and tell him you're going to get married in a year. Too soon? Three years. You'll get married in three years.

He hands you back your phone and you're so dazed that it takes you a second to focus on him again then you smile a little and lean in to kiss his cheek and leave a soft grey imprint behind and then you tell him you'll text him later and then you buy your bat, which ends up being three hundred and fifty fucking dollars, but you're too elated to care, and then you leave while he's still flushing.

It feels nice.

* * *

He does text you.

He talks a lot in a super verbose way but you don't dislike it because you can hear it all in his voice and when he asks you on a date you immediately accept. Your first date is to a park, actually, or—well, the botanical gardens. There's a section of poisonous plants and you go there first and he's enamored and it's so cute, but you're enamored with them too, just like you're enamored with him. It's a quiet, slow, gloomy day, but he tells you that you're brighter than the sun anyway and when he's this close you realize he has some freckles actually and that's really cute. You say as much without thinking about it and he flushes bright red and mumbles that he never had any until he moved out here to California and you tell him you really like them actually, and he looks so pleased that you want to kiss him.

But that would be forward, right?

You don't kiss him yet.

You want to but you don't.

He kisses you that night though, at his door after you've spent an entire day and evening together and you've had a very frank but honest conversation about who you are and how you work because it's not going to work out if he can't accept you as is but you get it if he doesn't and you didn't want to blindside him later with what you jokingly call anatomical inaccuracy as a defense mechanism but you're rambling until he presses his mouth to yours, soft and sweet and careful and when you pull back he looks like he's deeply struggling to not just yank you inside the too-expensive house but not in a creepy way, in a way where he wants to drag you into a blanket nest because you feel raw and bared. Instead he touches your face and thanks you and tells you that you're perfect exactly how you are while his one-eyed cat watches you from a nearby window.

You go on another date the next week. And after that. Then three days later. Then the next night. And it goes on and you're falling deep and fast, not like you weren't already in deep from the start. One night you ask him about his choker because his outfits always change but he only ever wears the one choker no matter what else he's wearing and he teases you with the story about the woman with the ribbon around her neck, whose head just popped right off when her husband took the ribbon off her. He says his head might come right off if he removed it, and what then? And you say maybe that'd be a cool superpower actually, can you imagine the Halloween costumes? You tell him he could be a Dullahan and he turns bright red at the mere suggestion and you feel kind of smug about it until he's kissing you senseless because wow, you made a really cute suggestion, just look at you John, he's going to show you how much he appreciates you.

Of course, this culminates in your entire face being covered in lipstick marks and some down your neck too, but you're too dazed and happy to care. When you part, he takes off his shades for the first time and you gape at his violet eyes and tell him he's the most beautiful man you've ever met and he kisses you again.

* * *

Your head doesn't actually come off if you take off the choker, as disappointing as that may be. But you do wear it at all times unless you're showering, which means despite the appeal of showering with your very hot boyfriend some mornings you refrain, even when you wake up naked and tangled in sheets and sticky and you have to watch his perfect ass as he saunters into the bathroom without you to clean up and get some hot water before you take a shower so long the pipes practically turn to ice.

He tells you he loves you a few months into dating and you almost cry, which alarms him until you tell him you love him too and you kiss him and he picks you right the fuck up and pins you to the wall and you could fucking cry for real but for another reason entirely now as you arch your back a little off the wall and breathe his name as your chests press together and he starts decimating your fucking clothes right then and there and you do the same to his.

You're in the hall, because Dave is off at an esports competition with his teammate-now-boyfriend who turned out to not actually be a silver fox like his main but a very attractive young man with dark skin and white hair and oh why the fuck are you thinking about this right now? You breathe, and focus, and slip John's shirt over his head and he kisses you on the mouth again right afterward.

You definitely fuck in the hallway even if you have to change positions to do it. You clean it all up _very_ carefully later, but you fuck in the hallway. You also fuck in your bed that night, you on your back and him astride your lap and sinking onto you as you grips his hips and whisper his name again and again.

Later, when you lay together in bed, he touches your throat so lightly you can barely feel it and asks if he can and you swallow under his fingers and nods. He could make so many jokes right now but he doesn't, he's somber and soft and quiet as he gently unclasps the choker, and you hold your breath as the velvet slips along your skin and away.

You're not ashamed of the vivid scarring across your throat, but the jokes about being beheaded are definitely a coping mechanism. You open your mouth to explain, to choke out that it was a childhood accident, you were a dumb teenager, it healed up wrong and raw and it's a miracle you can even still talk but he doesn't let you ramble all that out, just shakes his head and presses a kiss above your Adam's apple to the worst of the scarring, sort of how like you've learned to softly brush your lips across the scarring on his chest. A way that's not invasive but is mindful, acknowledging a vulnerability but not exploiting it, instead treating it as another aspect of why you like one another. It's... Nice. There are no questions, no expectations, just acceptance.

It's nice. John is nice. You love him, and you'll always love him, and you tell him as much in a throaty voice, and he shivers and wraps his arms around you. You fall asleep that way, and in the morning when Lovecraft stomps on top of both of you to wake you up then steals the scrap of velvet to run off with, you don't chase him.


End file.
